Sympathy
by December-Never-Ends
Summary: Jack Frost ponders fears and makes a very important decision. Jack Frost-centric, warning for slight self-harm(?) and possible attempted suicide.


I place my staff in the snow and drag it behind me as I walk slowly and silently along the edge of a great canyon of ice, the snowflakes catching in my hair and eyelashes. Looking out to the sea, I find a sunset exploding in orange and pink hues, making an elaborate display that even I have the decency to smile at.

Glancing down at the sea makes me so uneasy that I almost lost my balance and was sent plummeting down below. The rolling waves crashed against the ice and the foam was nearly as white as the ice cave I walked on. I wonder; if I fell from this height, would the ice still freeze and condense around my feet, or could I sink to the bottom of the ocean before it consumed me?

Ever since we, the Guardians, defeated Pitch a year ago (a year! and yet it seemed so long ago) I had been unhealthily obsessed with drowning. The idea of my air being stolen viciously from me, my eyes closing to the distorted image of the sun in the waves was almost sickeningly attractive now. Drowning had always been my number one fear, ever since I fell through the ice in that wretched pond and the water stole me from my humanity, my sister, and my life.

But I had never had to worry about drowning as Jack Frost. The water simply froze at the first contact with my feet, or hands, or butt as I fell accidentally onto it. It froze a into a spectacular show of ice crystals befitting a king, but recently I have become less satisfied with it. I believe Pitch has distorted my thought process somewhat.

I find myself obsessing with my fears. Every sort of scary thing I see, I attempt. Cliff diving without a parachute; standing in front of a speeding train; stepping into a cave filled with nothing but huge spiders the size of saucers. I suppose, in a way, it's an attempt to leave the trauma Pitch has given me behind; and perhaps, it's a twisted attempt to sympathize with him.

As strange as it seems, I've found an unmistakable attraction to understand what being the boogeyman is like. It must be awful, to not only be forced to live in a world where everyone only believes you are not real, but also be forced to live in eternal darkness, which is, in retrospect, not unlike living in eternal cold. I've come to question the Man in Moon's kindness after attempting to make sense of what Pitch said. When he attempted to get me to join him, he was so broken; it was disturbing, like a marionette. I wonder if I, too, would be reduced to that had I not been stronger (and younger).

And yet, when I attempt to engage one of the other Guardians with this topic, they manage to slip away. They are, I've found, unwilling to speak of it, as if Manny is a sacred entity who is not to be questioned in any way. As if his word is final and he knows best.

_What goes together better than cold and dark? We could bring fear back into the world! It would be—Pitch Black?—and Jack Frost, too._

It scares me how much sense those words make to me. They whisper doubts into the back of my mind, subconsciously, and I begin to question the Guardian's movements, motives, and effect on the children. I ponder whether the greed gained from North's presents and security from Tooth's memories is really healthy. What happens when they stop believing? They're less important, no longer worth protecting? As the spirit of winter, I know that's a lie.

People die from my winter, that's what scares me the most. People dread and hate it. I'm the bringer of disease and starvation. I can destroy whole civilizations. I remember, being human, hearing my sister say she hates the snow after nearly dying from it. I hate feeling how cold and unforgiving the water is after freezing over. I remember the frost gathering on my skin, realizing I take comfort in the cold, calling for it, only to struggle for warmth centuries later.

Anyone can feel cold. But I'm stuck in it, no longer human, and no longer warm.

I drop my staff on the ice block, nudge it with my foot and fall silently into the water.

The drop is long and peaceful. I know full well I can stop myself and fly up, but I don't. And when I break the water it is the most refreshing thing I've experienced in my entire immortal life.

For once, I'm moving too fast for the water to freeze, and the waves, vicious and persistent, pull me down, down, suck out my air and bang me against the ice cliff. My head slices open just a smidgeon, and I press my fingers into my hair, watching a red cloud expel from my head and condense in the water. I'm being pressed further down and I gulp sea water, which burns my throat and tongue and leaves an unpleasant taste of salt in my mouth. The water burns my eyes and I close them from the pain. My head is throbbing now, and the salt has found the cut, burrowing into it. I'd hiss if I could.

Then the area around me becomes cold. I dare to open my eyes as the temperature drops, and find that I am encased in a light weight ice box. I touch the wall experimentally and it thickens. It quickly carries me to the surface and I gasp once I'm above the waves Frost quickly gathers around my toes to provide a place for me to rest. The sea water comes up my throat and I vomit unceremoniously into the sea, coughing up salt.

It burns even harder coming up than it did going down. The salt rubs against my throat and I can barely catch a breath before the next round forces its way past my lips. When I'm done, my body is shaking from the shock and I collapse onto the water's surface, which has become freezing and hard as a rock. Some of the ice shifts to become more snow like, possibly to make me more comfortable, and I let it fall through my hands before blowing it away. More ice replaces it.

My attempt to swim has been successful but short, and ultimately unsatisfactory.

I lay there for hours on end, not willing to get up. My stubbornness surprises even me at times. The dark thoughts in my mind cloud and condense, and yet again I'm caught in a half sympathetic state that numbs my thought process. I'm about to pull myself up and try again, perhaps from a higher area, when I hear the row rumble of an alarmed yeti. When I look up, I see the creature perched at the top of the cliff, letting out a low whine. My ears ring, and, judging by the watery sound trickling through them, there's still water stuck up there.

The yeti moans again, maybe out of exasperation. I don't respond, I just stick my pinkie finger into the water. Instantly, a puddle of ice forms and my skin never makes contact with the water. It's a subconscious thing, and I can't seem to stop it at all. I sigh gloomily.

The yeti calls to me again, but I ignore it. When I'm in an upset mood, there's nothing that can convince me to respond to anything, unless it involves Jamie or Sophie.

I finally haul myself up, but only because my staff is now teetering on the edge of the icy cliff. It would be pretty bad if the thing rolled into the ocean and I couldn't retrieve it. What if some current pulled it away? I'd have to have the world on lockdown looking for it.

I fly up a bit haphazardly, swaying from side to side, and grab my staff. The yeti grunts and I offer it a weak smile. The yetis are smart, and if they think you're sad, they'll give you a bone crushing hug that can break your spine. It seems to notice my head injury and squeaks, but I turn from its view quickly. I run across the ice for a couple yards and jump up swiftly, flying up into the cold atmosphere, colder than the icy waves below. I'm not sure where I'll travel to next; hanging around the North Pole is very counter-productive.

_What goes together better than cold and dark?_

I grit my teeth. I think I know where I'm going.


End file.
